


Beautiful Disaster

by ziskandra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Mirror Sex, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/pseuds/ziskandra
Summary: Rita Skeeter will do anything for a lead.
Relationships: Gilderoy Lockhart/Rita Skeeter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: Flash With Benefits





	Beautiful Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistrali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/gifts).



Rita Skeeter doesn’t normally fuck men, as a general rule. Men’s egos are too easily massaged, stroked, and, well, she’d always preferred a challenge. Chasing a story was the only exception to her self-imposed stipulation, and she was close, so close, to finding one in Gilderoy Lockhart.

If only he wasn’t proving to be a harder nut to crack than she had anticipated. Not that she’d actually tried to crack his nuts. Not yet. 

But she _did_ find herself behind him for the third time in a month, his bare arse in the air as he positioned himself on all fours atop the truly ostentatious four-poster bed, facing the wall which was really just a giant mirror. He’d always enjoyed watching himself in the bedroom.

Narcissists were always the worst lovers, but it wasn’t sexual satisfaction Rita sought from Lockhart, but rather, a satisfaction of a different sort, the type brought about by a sensational scoop that would catapult her career to new heights. She’d been called a lot of nasty names in her time, but no-one could ever question her commitment to her goals.

It’s unfortunate that Lockhart is young enough, _single_ enough, that stories of his sexual proclivities simply won’t gather enough of the buzz that Rita craves. There’s a certain point, in both youth and old age, where such stories barely bat an eyelid. Young celebrities are allowed, encouraged, to have all sort of deviant fetishes. And no-one expects any better from wizened old men, who have lived too many years to find titillation in anything but the most novel of experiences.

His relative youth, however, is what had first caught her attention, her suspicion. Their fields of work don’t overlap neatly, not precisely. Rita certainly has no interest in trekking across the bogs of Britain, dirtying her robes as she saves small, insignificant villages from the rampages of Dark creatures. But they are both _writers_ , and she is more than ten years Lockhart’s senior, and there’s a part of her that refuses to believe that this simpering fool who waves his arse before her could have celebrated more success than her, in less time.

If he were smarter, he would be more suspicious. Surely he knows there is nothing to be gained for him from being fucked by an investigative journalist with an enchanted dildo. It really must be about the sex for him, even though Rita feels like she barely needs to be here at all.

A few simple charms, and the fake phallus is secured snugly at her waist. It’s amazing how with just a few spells, it feels almost like the real thing: any sensation, any pressure, goes straight to her cunt. Perhaps whatever this arrangement is between them goes both ways. At least where the sex is concerned, she doesn’t need anything more from him than to simply be there. The rest she can handle herself.

When it comes to lubrication, she’s always preferred to do things the manual way; applying it with her hands instead of her wand grounds her in the moment, helps her do what she must while also extracting some modicum of enjoyment from it.

Lockhart is blessedly silent as she prepares him, fixated upon his own reflection.

“Don’t move,” snaps Rita as he shifts his balance, lifting a hand to his face to delicately place his golden curls into position.

He doesn’t apologise, but he quickly reassumes his previous position, so she finds no need to reprimand him further. When she lines up the phallus with his entrance and asks him if he’s ready, she can see him swallow thickly and it’s that little movement, more than anything, which sends a thrum of arousal straight to her cunt.

“Yes,” he mutters, flashing that smile at himself in the mirror, the very same smile which Rita understands makes the housewitches of Britain wobble at the knees. But she is no housewife, and she simply finds the gesture aggravating. Without any further ado, she thrusts into him roughly, pushing at his shoulders with the heel of a hand: the less of his face she can see, the better. He can still see his own reflection, besides; his dilated pupils are pointed upwards.

“Tell me,” she says, as she moves inside him, reaching around to cup his balls. “Where are you headed next?”

“Rita,” he says, pitched higher than his usual tone, “You know I shouldn’t _say_ …”

She squeezes, not gently. His hips buck. Leaning down towards his ear and putting upon her best pretending-to-care tone, she whispers roughly, “There’s a lot of things you shouldn’t be doing, Gilderoy.”

“No,” he agrees readily, too readily. He lifts his hand again, and it gets halfway to his cock before Rita slaps it away. “No.” Much to Rita’s irritation, he lifts his head again to smile at the mirror, toss his hair. “But look at me!” She tries not to. “Am I not beautiful?”

A beautiful disaster, perhaps, if the rumours are true. If only she could receive some confirmation! If there’s anything a writer hates more than a young, suspiciously talented hack, it’s a _plagiarist._

“Yes, yes,” she mutters, wafting her hand over those curls like she’s patting a Golden Retriever. “Beautiful indeed.” Perhaps she has missed her calling. Perhaps she ought to become an actress.

Lockhart shimmies and smiles and thank _Merlin_ it doesn’t take him much longer to come; one, two strokes of his cock in addition to her movements inside him and he is _gone_ , putty in her hands and ejaculate on her hand and it’s all she can do to refrain from the temptation to wipe it off on his bare back, or perhaps on the covers of the too-plush bed. Rita withdraws from him and he curls up on his side as he basks in what remains of his afterglow.

In return for her efforts tonight, he offers her one word. “Hogwarts.”

She arches an eyebrow, resists his attempts to cuddle, relents and lets him drape an arm around her still-clothed chest. “Hogwarts.” She has little affection for their former school, the restrictive walls of the castle. Life had improved substantially once she’d left.

“You’re one of the first to know, but.. I’ve accepted a position there,” he says brightly. “A professor, me! Can you believe it?”

She wants to say she can’t, but the words stay stuck in her throat, sour like bile. “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she says. It’s an educated assumption.

Lockhart nods eagerly, pulls her tighter. “Indeed.”

Closing her eyes, Rita considers her options. She’s getting closer and closer every time they meet, and there _are_ those rumours that the position is cursed.

The real question is: can she stand another year of this?

If it means achieving her scoop, she realises the answer is _unfortunately._ In the meantime, though, her most pressing goal is far simpler: how to get this buffoon a man off her so she can get herself off instead. She's really earned this one, she thinks. 


End file.
